


Elendili, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, Akallabêth/Last Alliance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2002-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3768509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long before the Last Alliance, Isildur was involved in his native country's last political struggle... Events from The Silmarillion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Romenna

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Many thanks to ElectraFairford for her beta reading – she even read ten pages of _The Silmarillion_ so she could understand what I was muttering about.

If you are familiar with this story, don’t bother with the asterisks. I’m trying to make this thing comprehensible to the movie-only crowd. If I’m missing anything, please let me know. For that matter, I’ve only gotten as far as _The Silmarillion_ and _Unfinished Tales_ , so there may be accuracy issues. I don’t speak Sindarin and I don’t want to. Apparently Tolkien thought the Quenya terms _atarinya_ and _senya_ were clear enough from context; I translated the other one out for you.

All other flames will be delivered to the local dragon and tested for flavor.

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The Elendili

1\. Rómenna

 

In the year that Amandil lord of Andúnië left the King’s court in disgrace, the people who shared his beliefs still lived mostly in the haven of Rómenna on the eastern coast of Númenor. They called themselves either the Faithful or the Elendili – the Elf-friends – and seventy-eight years under a king of their own party had not erased the marks of the ugly forced relocation preceding him. Rómenna had been a famous seaport once, and still deserved the title; but the town was crowded and a little dirty now, and its reputation had weakened.

The other, larger party called itself the King’s Men, and called the Faithful rebels – although both claimed loyalty to the scepter. Indeed Tar-Palantir had belonged to the Faithful himself. He had stopped the more official forms of persecution, _obviously_ , but he was years dead now and his heir had found herself forcibly married and usurped before she ever came to power. Ar-Pharazôn was her first cousin, an arrangement considered incestuous even for royalty.

Hardly anyone mentioned that anymore. The King had done well during the war. That was the problem, in a way.

Pharazôn and Amandil had been friends more than a century before, and the simple fact of his _coup d’état_ had not dismissed Andúnië from its usual place in the King’s council. The real trouble had started when Sauron came to Númenor as a prisoner of war. That devious _villain_ had taken less than three years to work himself into inner political circles. He and Amandil had not gotten along. Maybe it was the way the Elf-friend had of breaking in unannounced when the Maia was trying to corrupt people, always with a look of false innocence followed by distrust that was all too real. Maybe it was that look of amusement on the increasingly rare occasions that Sauron’s status as prisoner came up in conversation. More likely, though, it was his undiplomatic refusal to be bullied. Sauron had seen to Amandil’s demotion as the elimination of a threat.

The presence of his grandson Isildur could not have helped matters, although the young man spent most of his time two hundred miles away in Andúnië. A chilly huddle of white buildings on the northwestern cliffs, that haven had produced most of the Elendili who had later been forced eastward; a previous lord had escaped that fate by concealing his affiliation. Apparently Isildur’s pride had not come to him from the male line. Andúnië had little to do with politics anymore; in fact, it comes into this story not at all. Had Isildur known that he would have to spend the next few decades in Rómenna instead, he might have objected far more strongly. His father had stayed so quiet about their purpose there, though, that at first the prospect actually seemed exciting.

" _Atarinya_ , what is Grandfather trying to do?" he asked for the third time in as many weeks. This time they had topped the last rise in the highway, and the eastern haven lay spread before them. Though the road bore ruts from cart traffic, the little party consisted of five riding horses and a sixth loaded with belongings. Wains were uncommon in Númenor; the road that connected Andúnië to Ondosto in the north, to Armenelos the capital, and finally to Rómenna was the only one made to accommodate them. Consequently it was more than wide enough for two to ride abreast, and Isildur had caught up with his father at the front. His brother Anárion, their mother Thoroniel, and a servant named Taurnil trailed behind them with the packhorse.

Elendil didn’t answer at first. "Gather us together, I think," he said finally. "You know Sauron has too much influence now for our people to trust the King’s law."

"Did he summon everyone, then? The Faithful?"

"It means nothing yet, _senya_."

"I suspect more than nothing," Thoroniel contradicted him, frowning. "Why not say it here, where we are not watched? The King has abandoned the old alliances beyond any hope of repentance*, and we may have to leave Númenor before we fall prey to it." 

" _Leave_ Númenor!" Anárion cried, his horse snorting nervously at the horrified outburst.

"There is Pelargir in Middle-Earth, and there is Gil-galad of the Elves. Neither supports the King’s Men," Elendil considered, as if to himself.

"No one is allowed to return, lady," Taurnil said in very nearly the same tone as Anárion.

If her responding shrug had something to do with foresight, she said nothing about it. " _Aurë enteluva_ ," she murmured grimly. Isildur blinked and glanced back worriedly. The last person to have used those words, _day shall come again_ , had spent the next twenty-eight years under torture**. Númenóreans spoke too little Quenya to make it coincidence.

"Surely _those_ hard times are over," he said. The sky darkened unremarkably over the ocean, and lights appeared in the windows of the town; the sunset lay behind them, and so did Armenelos.

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*Alliances, say, to the Valar. His current object of worship was actually Melkor (Morgoth to the elves), the Dark Lord to whom Sauron was a servant during the First Age. This is Sauron’s idea, of course, and mostly has to do with the Númenórean quest for immortality. It gets worse later on.

**A long, sad story told in _The Silmarillion_ and again, at length, in _Unfinished Tales_ ; the person is Húrin Thalion, who made fun of the same Morgoth to his face. His nephew was Elrond’s paternal grandfather, for those who were wondering.

Note also that this story takes place in the late thirty-third century Second Age, more than three thousand years before LOTR. Númenor is an island nation out to sea westward, inhabited by humans whose ancestors (such as Húrin’s friends) helped the Elves and associated Powers during the wars of the First Age.

 

Please review – upcoming, that thing about the White Tree. Assuming I get around to it, but let’s be optimistic and click the button.


	2. Armenelos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long before the Last Alliance, Isildur was involved in his native country's last political struggle... Events from The Silmarillion.

Isildur arrived in Armenelos with some time to spare before dawn, when he and his horse had both begun to tire. Lachdal might have been called a warmblood in later Ages; she was big, as Númenórean mounts had to be, and built for endurance as much as speed. Her brown coat would continue to look black well into the morning. Outside the city, Isildur dismounted and walked to the first line of quiet buildings.

"Wait for me," he muttered, and folded the bridle into the saddlebags. Certainly no ordinary horse could be treated this way, but Númenor had always been a special case. Lachdal was unusually bright even for that startling standard; she whickered softly, and then wandered off in search of grass. Isildur knew she wouldn’t go far. On foot, his old cloak obscuring his identity, he slipped into the city of the Kings.

Its planners had been accustomed to the old seven-ringed fortress-cities that the Elves and their own ancestors had favored, back in the dangerous years of the First Age. Armenelos had never expected nor suffered attack, however. It circled one of the foothills of Mount Meneltarma with none of the gates or defensive measures that characterized its predecessors. The awkwardness of this arrangement had decreased over the centuries as the architecture lost its military design, but something looked strange to Isildur. The top of the hill seemed to have been flattened somehow.

Further uphill, it became apparent that construction was taking place in that prominent position. A sprawling, circular foundation already lay in place. _What new devilry…?_ Isildur thought, but there would be time for discreet questions after he finished the first part of the plan. His priorities had shifted gradually, over the course of a six-hour ride; he had long considered leaving Rómenna because he could no longer stand the family’s isolation there. Unlike his father or Anárion, Isildur had a natural liking for politics; and he resented the fact that the rumor about Nimloth had come to them late, as a deliberate favor.

What had kept him awake that night, however, was remembering how quiet the rest of the day had been. Amandil had written a letter to Ar-Pharazôn, pleading for the Tree in the name of their old friendship, but had later cast it into the fireplace in the study.

"Sauron would use it against me," he said by way of explanation, looking old and helpless. That scared his grandson badly. If the famous Lord of Andúnië – the man who had given Isildur encouragement and most of his political training – had lost hope in the cause of the Faithful, all was lost. There had to be some way to save the White Tree, if only to convince his people that something could still be done.

Now Isildur had arrived at the walls that surrounded the palace grounds, a measure that had gradually become more defensible over the last two centuries. Now the gardens and courts that lay within were forbidden to the Faithful. They were guarded, too: in the final hour of the night shift, the handful of soldiers had retreated indoors for warmth. The White Tree loomed dimly beyond.

Luckily, it was almost winter. In season, Nimloth grew large silver flowers that actually cast light and would have made Isildur’s quest impossible. Now, though, it stood dark and nearly dormant. No one saw an anonymous figure send a grapnel over the wall, tug hard to be sure it had caught, and climb over.

In the dark, his first fear had been that Nimloth had not borne fruit that year. The Tree was unpredictable, and it had noticeably deteriorated after years of neglect. He hesitated, and then boosted himself onto the lowest branch. As soon as he had begun to climb, though, his hand met something round and slightly softer than expected. He fell out of the tree with a yelp. The fruit landed neatly in his lap, like a gift.

The faint sounds of conversation in the guardhouse stopped abruptly; the men there were alert, even if they had expected no trouble. Isildur swore and lurched to his feet. His hood had slipped, and in his haste he pulled it too far over his eyes at first. He pushed the fruit into the wallet under his cloak and groped for the short sword. By now, there were King’s Men on the lawn with lights and weapons of their own.

"Halt in the King’s name!" one, probably an officer, shouted automatically.

"Why?" he retorted, taking a defensive position. As the son and grandson of mariners, he was one of the few Númenórean civilians who had learned the use of a sword along with the rest of his education. The guards were undoubtedly better fighters, _but the gate opened easily from this side_ – if he could get that far without being captured or killed, he might yet escape. He inched forward.

" _Traitor—_ " someone sputtered, and then Isildur was knocked backward as a long Númenórean arrow struck his shoulder from devastatingly close range. Though only his left had been hit – without the cloak and the darkness to confuse the aim, he would surely have died – he dropped the sword and collapsed, gasping.

"Fool! Take him alive!" the officer ordered sharply. Sparks flickered in Isildur’s vision, but the useless arm fell atop the wallet with its precious contents. His mind cleared, and he took a deep breath. In one struggling motion, he grasped the hilt of the short sword and staggered upright.

The King’s Men had expected a helpless prisoner, if not a corpse; the archery of Westernesse was more feared in Middle-Earth than any other aspect of their military, and that shot had enough force behind it to puncture armor. Badly aimed as it was, though, Isildur’s life was in no immediate danger. He struck out desperately with the sword, and the startled guards recoiled for a moment. He was sprinting for the gate even as a series of grazing blows tore through his cloak, and beyond it before he realized he was bleeding freely in several places. In the afterglow of adrenaline, even his shoulder had faded to a dull ache.

He had perhaps a few minutes before a full hue and cry developed. He had planned to find an inn for a few days, hoping to learn at least who had sent the message, but now that was clearly impossible. He wasn’t sure he cared, now. Calling to Lachdal, although she would come, would attract attention – and there was the chance that either her name or his voice would be recognized. He slumped in an alley about halfway down the hill, wadding his shirt over the worst of the bleeding, and did what was only rumored to work in certain cases.

__

Lachdal! he thought, a mental scream that made his throat tighten in sympathy. He’d never tried this before; but if any horse would answer his thought, it would be the seal brown hunter. She had been a present to him as a six-month-old filly still wearing the last of her milk hairs, and she had gone with him whenever he traveled.

Minutes passed. Then, almost uncertainly, the mare’s long nose poked around the corner at the mouth of the alley. She snorted in recognition.

Isildur grinned. "Good girl, Lachdal."

It had taken them only half the night to cover the fifty miles between Rómenna and Armenelos, but now Isildur needed frequent rests and dared not use the main road. At last they came to the sea captain’s house and into the yard. Amandil had been sitting on the front steps, actually waiting for him; Isildur learned later that his parents had searched the haven for news of his whereabouts. The old man stood up in creaky alarm.

"Favor of the Valar, _where have you been?_ "

He dismounted awkwardly with one hand, fished the fruit of Nimloth from his wallet, and finally passed out on the cobblestones. He was only dimly aware that his grandfather had reached out to catch him, a look of wonder in his tired grey eyes.

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I could mention here that at the time, the sword Narsil was a rather useless family heirloom; or that Númenórean steelbows – that’s right, _steelbows_ , according to _Unfinished Tales_ – used arrows about forty-five inches long, which says something about the average height of these people… but this is pretty useless information. The construction going on at the top of the hill will be explained later, I promise.

Well, that finishes all the real action of the story until the Great Armament… but I’ll see what I can do. Plus, I have to work out how far this is going to go – should I aim for the founding of Arnor and Gondor, or write all the way to the Ring?


	3. Erukyerme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long before the Last Alliance, Isildur was involved in his native country's last political struggle... Events from The Silmarillion.

"We’ll not help him by revealing his deed, no matter his condition," Amandil told his daughter-in-law, his voice quiet but stern. "I know no healers who would not betray Isildur to the King’s Men. This is the first time an Elf-friend has so openly defied the Scepter, and many fear retaliation."

"It is not the last time," Thoroniel forespoke harshly. She hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time since her elder son had gone missing, and it was almost a week now since his return.

"Nevertheless—"

"I know. Have you heard from…" she inclined her head westward. Amandil had spent much of that week in the darkened upstairs room where Isildur had left one of the _palantíri_.

Their correspondent had indeed contacted him. "His disguise was adequate. Armenelos knows nothing of who reached the Tree. Apparently Ar-Pharazôn was willing, after that, to fell Nimloth. Sauron _delayed_ him."

"Why?"

"He has commanded a temple to be built on the hilltop of the city. Likely he means to make the White Tree an offering to Morgoth." Thoroniel expressed her absolute disgust. He nodded in agreement.

Isildur recovered only gradually, and remembered little of specific events that winter. He remained confined to his bedroom, which annoyed him when he was fully awake. Anárion attempted to cheer him up with a chessboard and some very silly books, which made up his own way of distracting himself. His older brother could not forget the danger they were in, though, nor could he accept his own helplessness to do anything about it. It was humiliating – fit punishment, Elendil told him without much sympathy, for almost getting himself killed.

The spring festival of _Erukyermë_ drew closer, however, and one day Isildur got up and wandered into the backyard. A shallow ridge rose behind the house, still wooded and wild except for the odd footpath, and the narrow city lot widened out backwards. The fence that enclosed the rest of the garden ended here. It was the only available place to plant the fruit of Nimloth, and Amandil had done so; a fragile seedling had put out two broad leaves. They were still damp and vivid green with newness.

"Hey now," he smiled and sat down before it, less awkwardly than he might have done. He was still weak from a winter of illness, but his scars had begun to fade. Even his shoulder had lost its stiffness. Spring had returned.

Then the wind picked up from the west, bringing with it a scent that made Isildur’s stomach clench. 

Smoke. 

__

Sour smoke, carrying a ruined fragrance that he still recognized four months later. He wasn’t surprised that the cloud had carried fifty miles.

"At least my errand was timely," he muttered. Then he stood up hurriedly – still an unwise move – as someone moved on the ridge.

Neighbors occasionally used the footpaths through the woods to visit each other, as a shorter alternative to using the street. The young woman who held a hand up in greeting clearly intended to do so, with a basket under one arm filled with baked goods. Having never paid much attention to the surrounding families, Isildur knew her only by sight: a rather short person with obvious Haladin* features and a kerchief tied over her frizzy brown hair.

She nodded to him amiably. "So you’re out and well again. I brought _athelas_ when I heard you were ill. You’re Ithil… Ithilnur…?"

"Isildur." He was touched. "You brought _athelas_? Why?"

"In farm country, it’s good manners among neighbors." She made a slight courtesy. "I’m Eregwen daughter of Bereg, come from the Hyarnustar** at the summons of Lord Amandil."

"And you have come to visit? Surely the welcome here is not fine enough to encourage a return."

She smiled wryly and pointed at the western sky. A bluish smudge had become visible over the garden fence, and the acrid smell had strengthened. "It is said the exiled councilor receives word still from the capital. My father thinks that this smoke is an evil sign."

"It is. Nimloth is burning," he told her, but his frown had faded. She stared at him, and he moved aside so that she could see the young White Tree. "But it is spring, and we still have hope in Rómenna."

" _Ai_ …"

A few days later, he invited Eregwen to the _Erukyermë_ feast at his house, and had an excuse to avoid the mariner friends of his father and grandfather.

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*The Haladin (House of Haleth) were the smallest of the three original tribes from whom the Númenoreans are descended. They tended to be short, black- or brown-haired, gray-eyed, and rather anarchic. Most of the Faithful are from the House of Bëor, who looked the same except that they were taller, and spoke more Sindarin than anything else. The Númenórean majority is from the House of Hador, which was blonde; the Rohirrim of the Third Age are of mostly (non-Númenórean) Hadorian descent. 

The Line of Elros – the royal family, the lords of Andúnië, and other miscellaneous cousins – predictably comes from all three, as well as being part Elf. Anyway, I liked the Haladin and was annoyed that they seemed to have gone extinct by the time of LOTR. Go short people!

**Númenor is shaped like a rough five-pointed star, and the Hyarnustar is the southwestern peninsula. It has very lovely Elvish forests in the far northern part, vineyards throughout, and actual sandy beaches along the southern coast. Elsewhere, including Rómenna, it’s mostly cliffs.

I should point out that I have no idea how _Erukyermë_ was celebrated after it lost the King’s favor, if indeed they celebrated it at all. But the Elendili are human – it _has_ to involve food, doesn’t it?

So, have a sample of whatever it is they’re eating and write me a review…


	4. The White Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long before the Last Alliance, Isildur was involved in his native country's last political struggle... Events from The Silmarillion.

Thanks in advance to ElectraFairford and Narchannen Fae for beta reading, and I wish they would get on with their collab so I can return the favor.

The asterisks are enormously simplified explanations. If you really want to know, read _The Silmarillion_ , but this should be enough to go on for my few ill-advised allusions.

Most of the information I have about the _palantíri_ talks about their uses during the Third Age. The rest of what I’ve gathered is that they were on the ships coming to Middle-Earth, and they were gifts from the Noldor – which suggests that they’ve been in the Andúnië family for some time. On a wild guess, I decided they weren’t the only ones.

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2\. The White Tree

Isildur propped the _palantir_ in a makeshift wooden stand that someone had made for it. The carving had an amateurish look to it that suggested a family member’s childhood project, and so was in stark contrast to the black globe that rested in it. That had been a gift from the Elves, he knew, back before their visits stopped. The young man backed away about three feet and concentrated. The _palantir_ stayed resolutely black.

"It’s off its pole," he complained to the immediate universe. The Stones worked only if they had been aligned a certain way, with all the directions pointed correctly. He had hoped that this one’s metal case had prevented it from rolling during the trek from Andúnië, but the only way to fix it now was by trial and error. He rolled it slowly on the stand until it abruptly responded, erupting in a myriad of small, confused images.

Fortunately, this was one of the four small Stones, about a foot in diameter, and adjusting it had not been too difficult for one person. Now that Isildur had it working, though, it seemed a waste not to look into it. He moved instinctively to the east of the Stone, looking westward. The island of Númenor spread before him.

And, before he could draw it into focus, something else snagged the image. —Lord Amandil? something that was not precisely a voice asked tentatively.

"Uh – no," Isildur replied aloud.

—One of the boys?

"I am Isildur, son of Elendil," he explained. Ordinarily he would have been indignant; his twenty-fifth birthday and coming of age was years behind him. The "voice" came from another _palantir_ , far too close for this kind of link to work well. It was probably Armenelos, about fifty miles east. That had surprised him – and he had the feeling that the person at the other Stone was an acquaintance who had last seen him and his brother as children. It took on a patient, almost condescending tone.

—I see. Tell your grandfather that… I believe Councilor Sauron wishes the King to destroy the White Tree… It is a rumor, but I fear that he will agree.

" _What?_ "

The message repeated, less patiently. —Go now, the "voice" commanded. The _palantir_ went black.

When he told Amandil, his grandfather asked several unanswerable questions about the correspondent’s identity and then sighed heavily. "I thought it might come to this," he muttered. "Where are your parents?"

A family meeting followed. No one looked happy; they all had work to do with the last of their possessions arriving amid the nervous clusters of people who had answered the summons of Lord Amandil. Inevitably they had all come to the house to announce themselves. Hosting did not come easily to Thoroniel, who was generally respected but not popular among their people. The adamant calm that had let her speak of exile without a flinch had begun to unravel; her husband, who had only recently returned from his last sea voyage in the King’s service, had avoided the house entirely. Both brightened, though, when Isildur repeated his story.

"We must still have friends in Armenelos," Thoroniel deduced. "Perhaps ambiguous, politically – enough to keep contact."

"I didn’t know our reputations carried that far," Elendil added thoughtfully.

"I knew. If the King’s Men had not still respected me, I might be imprisoned or dead by now. Did you not know how much Sauron’s power has grown?" Amandil said sharply.

Father and son stared at one another: one anguished, the other horrified. Eventually Anárion murmured, "The White Tree – Nimloth."

Amandil sighed. "With Sauron wielding the only real power in Númenor, the Tree _will_ fall. It is only a matter of time."

"I thought it was only a symbol, if a beautiful one," Isildur protested. "If the King has not destroyed it already, why would Sauron press him to it?"

"Nothing that comes from the Elves is only a symbol, and Nimloth is the subject of a certain prophecy Tar-Palantir made before he died," Amandil explained.

"When the Tree perishes, then also will the line of the Kings come to its end," Thoroniel recited, remembering.

Amandil nodded. "The Elves deem its kind precious because the Trees are images of an older Tree, both creations of Yavanna the Valië*. In the time of the bliss of Valinor there were two trees, one golden and one silver."

"We know the story of Laurelin and Telperion," Anárion interrupted, correctly naming them, "and how Ungoliant destroyed them just before the Noldor went to Middle-Earth**."

"—after the stolen Silmarils, which shone with light from the Trees; and one of which our ancestor Eärendil still carries," Elendil added. The story of the Eärendil the Mariner*** was one of his favorites.

"Which means," Amandil continued wearily, "that the White Tree is wrapped in our own history and that of the Elves, and particularly in the defiance of the Great Enemy whom Ar-Pharazôn now worships. I would there was a way to save it." Isildur looked up suddenly at that, but the former councilor had sunk into his own thoughts.

The servant Taurnil awoke a little before midnight to the sound of activity in the yard below his window. At first, he thought the cloaked figure must be a horse thief – such intruders had become more common lately, just as murderers had. When he had crept downstairs with a torch and his longbow, however, the burglar fought back a laugh.

"It’s _me_ , Taurnil. It’s all right," Isildur reassured him softly.

"Wha—where are you going at this time of night?" he demanded, all formality forgotten.

"Riding," the other answered maddeningly. "I’ll be a few days, all right?"

Taurnil watched him lean to open the gate, then turn west. The short sword that had not quite fit into his pack briefly reflected the torchlight. The servant pulled his cloak tighter against the late-autumn chill and went back inside.

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*Valië: one of the female Valar, or Powers That Be. Yavanna is the one associated with plants and animals – and Ents. They mostly live in Valinor, a city on the island of Aman, a good distance westward of Númenor.

**ElectraFairford tells me I have to explain this, but it’s complicated… Ungoliant was a huge, sentient spider who allied with Morgoth just long enough to attack Valinor, suck the aforementioned Trees dry, and cause general chaos. Members of a tribe of Elves known as the Noldor swore revenge on Morgoth and wound up in exile. Galadriel is the last of these who hasn’t been either pardoned or killed. When she refused the One Ring in FOTR, she was allowed to return to Aman – _"I passed the test."_

***Another long story. Eärendil was Elrond’s father (Elrond’s brother was the first King of Númenor, hence the relation), one of the Half-Elven. Given the choice between species, he chose the immortals, and his ship guards the night sky. Tolkien’s equivalent of Venus is the light from his Silmaril, one of three magical gems that figures largely in _The Silmarillion_.


	5. The Temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long before the Last Alliance, Isildur was involved in his native country's last political struggle... Events from The Silmarillion.

"—ya" is an ending in direct address that apparently indicates people on friendly terms, such as family members; like "dear". If anyone fully understands this, please let me know. It’s driving me crazier.

ElectraFairford refused to beta read, so be warned… well, sort of. I’ll deal with any complaints next chapter if I have to.

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5\. The Temple

As storytellers and official records would later agree, "years passed." When little could be done against it, it was easy to forget that change had occurred at all. The Elendili organized themselves in Rómenna, and meetings between the influential grew more regular. Eventually they formed a Council of sorts, uncomfortably like the one that Amandil had left in Armenelos. As the Elf-friends’ undisputed chief, the exiled lord hosted those meetings in a quiet third-story room of the house. Elendil had included himself quite easily, but his sons found that conversation halted if they ventured in; and though Thoroniel apparently enjoyed her husband’s confidence, Isildur and Anárion knew little more than the identities of the delegates themselves.

Most of them were Rómenna born, which was representative of the general population, but three others had come from different parts of Númenor. Eregwen’s father Bereg attended for the Hyarnustar; he came from a generally respected family, and had the gift of reading people’s hearts. Isildur had been surprised to find that his unexpected friend drew her descent from the Line of Elros, if rather more distantly than he did.*

"We only count if one allows female descent and several youngest sons," she admitted cheerfully. They had taken a small rowboat out on the quiet water of the harbor, where the lighthouse Calmindon reared white from the distant Tol Uinen. Eregwen was unused to boats, and enjoying the novelty; the Hyarnustar had beaches, but no good havens for ships.

"My own branch comes from Princess Silmarien," he frowned.

"Yes, but she would have had the scepter instead of her younger brother, if the laws of succession that changed for her great-niece had done the same for her."

"…and I would be the son of the King’s Heir," Isildur sighed. Eregwen darted a steel-colored glance at him as he absently rubbed his shoulder. The wound had not hurt him since the day the little White Tree had put out leaves, but the memory would not fade as quickly.

"Much would be different," she agreed.

She did not speak of it, but Isildur knew her thoughts had gone in the same direction as his. Nimloth had been only the first burnt offering made at the temple of Sauron. Now human prisoners died there, and most of them were Elendili. Not that refusing to worship the Lord of the Darkness was itself a crime – the charges tended towards treason and rebellion, or conspiracy to murder. Elendil had kept a careful record of this, but no one else could bear to think how many familiar names already filled his small collection of notebooks.

Eregwen had grimly taken the optimist’s role, but this was threatened one morning when she burst in on the family’s breakfast. Isildur’s chair shrieked across the floor as he went to her, alarmed; the joking comment Anárion had meant for Taurnil died unspoken. The young woman’s face had gone white under her freckles, and she was simultaneously panting and holding back tears. Evidently she had sprinted all the way over the ridge, and had tripped once or twice in the dirt.

"Sit down, Eregwenya. What happened?" Thoroniel asked soothingly, nudging a cup of hot tea in her direction. The two were not much alike, but Thoroniel had admired the younger woman’s bold gift of friendship.

"My father—"

The story came out in near-hysterical gasps. Bereg had quietly attempted to contact some friends he had left in the Hyarnustar, friends who had cared for neither of the feuding parties; but somehow he had attracted the interest of one of Sauron’s servants. There were all too many of them spread throughout the kingdom, their purposes mysterious.

"I will not believe they intend aught but evil," Elendil interrupted sourly.

"Of course not," Amandil answered. "Lady, please go on."

She swallowed. "Soldiers came to our house last night. They say Father conspired against the King. They will take him to the temple of Sauron." As if that last had been a fact she had hidden from herself, she broke down openly. "I – I thought I’d – come to tell you – as soon as I could get away from the house – but it is too late!"

"No," Isildur breathed. His imagination would not support the idea of Bereg – the friendly, plain-faced man who had treated him like a bright child – facing torture in the center of Armenelos. He took Eregwen’s hand.

Her bleary eyes widened. "You cannot go to the temple. We cannot fight this," she commanded softly.

"I will write to Ar-Pharazôn, and then consult the _palantir_ ," Amandil announced grimly. Isildur blinked; his grandfather was lost in his own thoughts, and had not noticed Eregwen’s words. "This time we may have a defense ready in time. He cannot abandon justice if it is thrust in his face…"

Elendil and Thoroniel sighed skeptically, in unison, and glanced at each other uneasily. Eregwen murmured, "Thank you," though, and stood as if to go. Isildur followed her outside.

"Is your house still watched?" he asked.

"Yes. I’ll be careful."

"They’ll know you were gone, Eregwen."

"I go but to fetch my cloak. I will not be seen."

Isildur indicated the weather in a sweeping gesture. It was nearly summer again, and no one went about cloaked. Suddenly he frowned. "You told me not to go to Armenelos. I did not think that you intended to go yourself.

"For you had the right of it," he admitted. "Sauron has turned the power of Númenor against itself, power that once defeated _him_ without a fight! Should all the Faithful gather together and fight openly, we would but break against it. Your father is lost. Mayhap we all are."

She blinked away tears. "And yet you considered going yourself, a moment ago – deny it not. Whence came this?"

He hesitated. "I am at least soldier trained. I would not have you throw your life away. Besides, when a man cannot be rescued, there is yet something to be done."

He explained what he meant. Eregwen burst out crying again, but she agreed and he held her until she had regained control. He realized then, though he made no sign of it, that he would risk anything if it would protect her. That she was more precious to him than any White Tree or political ideal.

A few days later, the _palantir_ told Amandil that someone had smuggled a dagger to the prisoner Bereg. He had died by his own hand, long before the fire and agony of the Temple. Confused accounts told of a man and a woman, both disguised, who had disappeared before their gift became known.

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*Elros was Elrond’s brother. Since they were Half-Elven and half mortal, they were allowed to choose their species. Elrond chose the Elves and went into the service of Gil-galad; Elros chose to be human, and became the first King of Númenor. The Númenórean royal family is therefore called the Line of Elros, as are its cousins. Amandil and family are descended from Silmarien, the oldest sister of the fifth King. Her great-niece, the sixth King’s only child, became the first Ruling Queen; then the succession stopped being sexist.

Due to intermarriage, Amandil is also the current King and Queen’s third cousin… All of this apparently has nothing to do with his place on the Council. The Lords of Andúnië may always have represented the Andustar; but Council members supposedly were more-or-less _elected_. Not that they had any real power beyond that of advisors. *sigh* At least, that’s as much as I understand. It’s as bad as the Electoral College.


	6. The Havens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long before the Last Alliance, Isildur was involved in his native country's last political struggle... Events from The Silmarillion.

I have no idea whether or not Isildur ever saw Middle-Earth before the foundation of Gondor. Then again, his family has a decided naval tradition; and _The Silmarillion_ discusses conditions in the Númenórean colony-havens at the part I’m aiming for. I also assumed that, like American and European children not so long ago, very young Númenórean girls and boys alike wear petticoats instead of pants. _Diapers are a relatively recent invention._

A George Orwell quote goes, "In order to hate imperialism, you have got to be part of it." Of course, that got me thinking…

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6\. The Havens

A day before the New Year counted 3310 in the Second Age, a light snow coated the rooftops of Rómenna like sugar. Seabirds settled despondently on the masts of the ship that had just reached port, a huge thing returning from the southern havens in Middle-Earth. Aboard, Isildur glanced at the rigging and warily donned an old hat. Everyone knew to expect that, in Númenor. There was a saying, that a blind mariner could still recognize the country by its cacophony of gulls.

He hastened from the quays and turned uphill, sea legs protesting, his chest of belongings slung carelessly across his back. At a road turning, he hesitated briefly.

He muttered, "Grandfather will know soon enough," and turned left. The route took him south of the familiar wooded ridge, away from the house of Lord Amandil.

Toward home.

After the wedding, Eregwen had worried about her mother living alone in the big, empty house that had once belonged to Bereg. The widow was hardly an old woman by their standards – approaching one hundred seventy – but she had never fully recovered from the terror of her husband’s arrest. The sea-captain’s house was also no place for children; when Eregwen became pregnant, they had moved in with her mother. Isildur paused as a group of neighborhood children raced past him, and he set down his sea chest in the street.

Sure enough, one of the boys halted and returned to tackle him. " _Atarinya!_ "

"Elendur," he answered. "By the Valar, you’ve grown! You’ll pass me if I ever go to Middle-Earth again."

The ten-year-old beamed and released him. "Will I be as tall as Grandfather?"

Isildur laughed. Elendil bore the epithet "the Tall" with good reason, standing almost half a _ranga_ * higher than the average. "Maybe. But there are disadvantages, _senya_. You’d bump your head in doorways."

"Grandfather doesn’t."

"He’s used to it. Where is your mother?"

"The marketplace."

" _Ai_. She’ll know the ship is in, then. Go home and tell your grandmother we’re coming, all right? Is your brother there?"

Elendur nodded to both, shaking snowflakes from his unruly black hair, and trotted up the street. Isildur set off in the opposite direction somewhat faster. He and Eregwen met halfway and simply clung to one another for a moment, too glad to speak.

" _Mae govannen_ ," Isildur whispered, "well met." Though the Númenóreans had once spoken nearly as much Sindarin as the common Westron, the former had been forbidden from public speech for centuries. To the Elf-friends, the words had the sense of a shared secret.

Sounding strangled, she answered, "Two years! Never do that to me again."

"Never fear it," he promised. "I have missed you and the boys, and I have no desire to see the havens again. Elendur I have seen. How is Aratan?"

"Well. He talks now." She gazed at him. "You are a century old this year, and I missed your birthday."

"As I remember, I spent that week swatting flies in trackless jungle. There was little to miss."

"Ha!" They picked up their respective burdens again – Isildur attempted to take some of the groceries from his wife, but she shrugged away the help. "I have not grown weak in your absence, love. Come on, and tell me about Middle-Earth."

"The native people are strange," he began after a moment. He had spent some time reflecting on his story, and did not want to be misinterpreted. "They fear us, and with reason – there are temples in other places than Armenelos."

"Oh, no," Eregwen broke in sympathetically, "those poor woses."

"They are not woses. They have a culture of their own, not as ancient as ours but perhaps as rich, or more so. Númenor would seem no paradise to them, even were our own people more generous.

"Our soldiers sometimes take their men as slaves, for rowing or building," he added, and shuddered. "I will not speak of that unless I must."

"So Middle-Earth has fallen into shadow, just as we have."

"No – only the havens where soldiers are. The Elves dwell farther north, in Rhovanion and Lindon. There is also the haven of the Faithful at Pelargir."

"Mordor is close upon them."

"Mordor is abandoned. We are not yet that far gone."

"Still, it is not a place I would have so near."

"No," he agreed simply. He opened the front door to find a toddler sitting on the floor in the hall, blue petticoats spread around him. The boy dropped his wooden animals and stared up at Isildur uncertainly.

"Aratanya, this is your _tatanya_ ," Eregwen prompted gently, turning to hang her dampened cloak on a peg. Her hair was loosely bound in a bronze clasp; it fell in frizzy brown waves over both shoulders. Isildur did not think he had imagined seeing one or two gray hairs, and he promised himself never to leave her again. Aratan clambered to his feet and simply stood, watchful. Evidently, he could not decide what to do about this stranger who claimed to be his father.

Isildur accordingly knelt, trying to remember what Elendil had done in similar situations, and made no move to touch him. "Hey," he murmured.

" _Tatanya_ went over the Sea," the child pronounced with a mixture of suspicion and pride.

"Yes, but he has come back home now. And he has brought you a present."

He paused to rummage through his sea chest for a moment, then held up a painted wooden animal like the toys on the floor. This one was like no animal Aratan had ever seen. "What is that?"

"A Mûmak. They live across the Sea, where the weather is very hot, and the Wild Men ride them. They are much bigger than horses." He placed the carved elephant on the floor.

"Its nose is long!" Aratan sat back down again, pleased.

Neither Isildur nor Eregwen had intended to rise early the next morning, but Taurnil could be inventive in getting the attention of the house. At the third attempt, Isildur gave up and got out of bed. The bedchamber was sufficiently cold to wake him up; Eregwen muttered sleepily and wrapped the covers more securely about herself.

"What is it?" he asked at the door, annoyed and hastily dressed.

"My lord, your father and Lord Amandil wish to see you as soon as may be."

"Are they doing the same to Anárion?"

"Well guessed!" The servant bowed and left, apparently in no better a temper at having to go out in the frigid morning.

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*A _ranga_ is a Númenórean unit of linear measure, about 38 inches. "Manhigh" is two _rangar_ , or six foot four, but the unit is based on paces rather than the average height. It puts Elendil the Tall at just short of seven foot eleven, two and a half _rangar_ – making his epithet one of the biggest understatements in Tolkien.


	7. The Ban

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long before the Last Alliance, Isildur was involved in his native country's last political struggle... Events from The Silmarillion.

Isildur had intended to let his wife sleep, and answer his family’s summons alone; but his attempts to dress silently in their shared room still awakened her. Eventually they ate a hasty breakfast and set out on the path together.

"We are fortunate Elendur tried to stay awake for the New Year," she said. "Otherwise, he’d be awake and wanting to come along too."

"Are the boys all right, alone with your mother?" he asked cautiously. They seldom spoke of the widow’s emotional fragility, but much could change in two years’ time.

She darted him a defensively sharp glance. "Yes. She is better than when you left us."

"I do not worry overmuch," he qualified apologetically.

She nodded, and changed the subject. "This may be more than a meeting between family," she began tentatively. "Do you know aught of recent events, in the King’s service?"

"I know that the captain with whom I sailed home had been summoned in haste," he answered, puzzled. "What has changed?"

"I know not, exactly. That is but the topic of your grandfather’s conversation for the past few weeks."

"The _palantir_ …"

"Perhaps our correspondent has returned. I would speak no more of it until we can ask, and be certain."

His parents and grandfather welcomed them warmly, as Isildur had expected to some degree after his absence, but he quickly took in how tired they all looked: defeated, or betrayed by shock. The year before Isildur left, however, Anárion had married and moved into the center of town; talk of politics would wait until he arrived. He fidgeted as he repeated his account of the Havens, and reached the door before Taurnil did.

"Hey!" his brother grinned, and embraced him; the younger man had wished everyone a happy New Year before he realized that anything was wrong.

An awkward moment later, Amandil confirmed that the _palantir_ had again proved useful. "She says that a fleet is to be built in Andúnië, in secret. Ar-Pharazôn wishes to announce it later."

"Andúnië? Why?" Isildur asked blankly. The western haven had no shipyards large enough for a true seagoing vessel. It wasn’t practical, when its only patrons were the local boats and the half-forgotten visits from the Elves of Eressëa. The Ban of the Valar prevented the Númenóreans from sailing westward out of sight of land, and had been the only specific command from those Powers for more than three thousand years*.

"She?" Anárion prompted, a second later.

"Our correspondent," Amandil said. "I would rather not let her identity become known. Do not ask me to burden you with the secret. As for Andúnië, Isildurya, you now know as much as I do – enough to hazard a guess."

Much as he hated to admit it, there was only one logical answer. "But they _cannot_ mean to declare war on the West. It’s not possible," he protested.

"Ar-Pharazôn the Golden believes anything that pleases him is possible," Elendil said dryly.

"So long as it also pleases Sauron," his wife corrected him, and he nodded bitterly. Isildur knew his father had little capacity for actual cynicism, and this bothered him. Something else was yet wrong.

Looking at Amandil, Eregwen observed, "You intend to act against him, do you not?" Her father’s gift came to her only seldom; but when it did, she could tell much that a person had not spoken.

Amandil hesitated and glanced at his son. Clearly they had argued, but Elendil had lost squarely. "I intend to appeal to the Valar, sailing first east – as if for Pelargir – and then turning about. It was done once before."

"Yes, but Eärendil did not ask pardon for a nation of rebels," Elendil muttered, naming the allusion. "Nor was he truly mortal, and thus prohibited from the Deathless Lands."

Grimly, Amandil did not contradict him. "Perhaps it cannot happen so a second time. Yet Númenor will not win this war, and I do not wish our people to fall under Their wrath."

"You would sail to your death," Anárion said softly.

He shrugged. "The King does this because he is old and without hope, and I am no younger than he. I will not speak more of this; only do not hope to find me in Middle-Earth when at last you must sail there. I do not think that what peace the Faithful have will last much longer. You must prepare ships of your own here in Rómenna."

There were murmurs of assent; they had correctly interpreted the last as a command. Eregwen went to him and kissed his forehead solemnly, though the tall man had to stoop to let her do it.

"May the Valar smile on you, Grandfather," she said.

"On all of us."

He departed, with three old friends and a small boat, the same night that she told Isildur she was pregnant.

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*The Númenóreans always had something of an obsession with ocean exploration, but always eastward to Middle-Earth and beyond. The Valar were afraid – and rightfully so – that if they ever saw Eressëa or Aman they would want immortality. This was beyond their power, although the King’s Men didn’t listen to that point. The Ban of the Valar was therefore cause of much resentment even before the major division in Númenórean opinion. At first, it was actually because they wanted to return the visits of the friendly Elves of Eressëa – even though they later turned Elves away as spies.


	8. Ciryon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long before the Last Alliance, Isildur was involved in his native country's last political struggle... Events from The Silmarillion.

Disclaimer: Most of this particular chapter is open to interpretation, actually. I don’t know when Aratan or Ciryon were born, and I’m only assuming they were close together in age because they seemed to make a duo in _Unfinished Tales_. It’s hard when all one knows about a set of characters is the way they died.

According to the same source, Elendil tended to sign his name without vowels. Since "nd" is one letter in the Fëanorian alphabet, it came out as a convenient three-letter palindrome. Pretty cool.

###################################################

Isildur had not had an easy morning.

Eregwen told him not to worry about the birth, since this was their third child and he had sufficiently made a fool of himself when the first two came. He had responsibilities enough to keep him out of the way, certainly after joining the unofficial Council.

"I love you," he told her anxiously.

"Mother will send Elendur with news," she answered, and kissed him reassuringly.

She was right about responsibility – Elendil had gone missing. In her flurry of herbs and clean linens, all Isildur could learn from Thoroniel was that he expected to return in a few days.

"There’s a note for you in the study," she added from the doorway. He saw her nod to a neighbor from the path, and he shut the door hastily behind her. With his father apparently playing truant, he had realized that the Council would look to him. This was gratifying in a way, but he was in no mood to deal with the ideas and complaints of much older men. The note lay squarely in the middle of Amandil’s old desk, atop a thick sheaf of papers in Elendil’s hurried scrawl.

__

Isildur—

Please take care of this for me.

I seek tidings in Andúnië.

—LNDL

He cursed softly. _Of all the folly—!_ His father had no real talent for politics, but a reliable sense of efficiency had won respect for the new leader of the Faithful as easily as it had for the sea-captain. Even in his own absence, he intended to have preparations made. 

The stack underneath listed errands that would take Isildur all over Rómenna. When Amandil had told them to prepare for flight to Middle-Earth, none of them had yet considered the matter of logistics; and they had received no word or sign from him since. Worse, Ar-Pharazôn would undoubtedly suspect treason if he knew that all of the Faithful intended to leave together.

"It _is_ treason," Elendil had commented a day after the old lord’s departure. "Númenor has become the enemy of the Valar, and the Faithful send men to give Them warning. The old accusation against our people has finally come true, has it not?"

Thus the little fleet had to make ready in secret. There were visits and requests to make, surreptitious signs of progress to observe – and most complicated, negotiations with the shipyards to attend. Meanwhile, he knew, his wife was in pain that he could neither imagine nor abate in the slightest.

He stuffed the papers into the wallet he carried under his tunic, and left the empty house behind him. The quays had been slightly busier than usual this year, though the King still had not made his plans public. Isildur managed to conduct most of his business without attracting attention. He had begun to think he would get away without incident when he met Ulrad, a naval officer of the King’s Men who had inexplicably decided to befriend him when they were together at the Havens.

"Do you come to sea again?" he asked amiably, and Isildur started.

"I know not…" he answered, and remembered himself. "Rather, I can answer what you meant to ask: I will not sail again as a soldier."

"Ah," Ulrad nodded understandingly. "I thought perhaps, with your grandfather gone to Middle-Earth – what ails you?"

He hoped his expression had not changed that much at the mention of Amandil’s deception; perhaps the fool had only now noticed the nerves he had displayed the whole day. When he explained Eregwen’s condition, Ulrad apologized hastily.

"I had no knowledge of this. I am sure she’ll be all right, even if this is a difficult time of year. Times are not easy as they once were, you know…"

Isildur might have shouted at him, or fled back to the house, but he caught sight of the boy that had rounded the corner just out of earshot. Elendur waved in a desperate sort of hail, clearly out of breath.

"Your son? He doesn’t look much like you," Ulrad commented.

The offense Isildur might have taken at that was lost on both of them. "No, he looks like my father," the Elf-friend explained absently. He hurried up the alley to meet the boy, fearing the worst. If all was not well with Eregwen…

" _Atarinya!_ Come quickly!" Elendur panted, and broke into a sudden grin at his father’s expression. "I have another brother."

Isildur did not quite break into a run, but his son’s shorter legs were no match for his long, quick strides. Eventually he stopped and waited, and Elendur rewarded him with a sour look.

"I _can_ find my way home on my own," he reproached.

"I know," Isildur answered simply, but they walked together the rest of the way.

Elendur hesitated for a long time, but finally asked, "Are we going to Middle-Earth? I’ve heard you talking with Grandfather’s friends."

"We’ll see. Certainly not for a few years."

"Are _you_ going?"

"Alone?" he barked a laugh. "No. What makes you think that?"

"Well…"

"When I came back from the Havens, I promised your mother that it was the last time I sailed away without all of you. Once, we had a tradition in Númenor for young families: we would have no children if there were a chance the parents would be separated before the baby grew up. I think I know why that was."

Elendur nodded. "I am glad."

They reached home some time later, and found the rest of the family gathered in the old master bedchamber. Eregwen’s mother had swaddled the baby and rearranged the cradle that had been Aratan’s until recently. The toddler was staring into it, an expression of bafflement on his round face.

"Ciryon _was_ the name we agreed on, was it not?" Isildur asked, smiling rather blankly. He was too relieved and happy for intelligent speech.

"Yes, for a boy," Eregwen agreed. She smiled back tiredly, and he sat down next to her on the bed. Their hands met and clasped.

"Elendil will not be pleased that he chose a grandchild’s birthday to seek tidings of his father," Thoroniel commented dryly.

"I hope he did not underestimate the danger," Isildur frowned.

His mother snorted. "After your adventure in the capital? Your father knows how to move in secret, better than you do."

He paused defensively, then conceded the point with a nod. Elendil’s mission was not, after all, completely frivolous. Nonetheless, it seemed more important now than ever that the Faithful held together. He was tired of having to worry.


End file.
